


And With These Hands I Shall

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Sickfic, Withdrawal, caring!lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, December 2005. Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes meet rather unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And With These Hands I Shall

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for both WAdvent on the lj comm watsons-woes and #12dayssherstrade. I'm considering it finished (for now) but may add on to it in the future.

_London, December 2005_

Cold, sharp air scrapes at the back of Sherlock’s throat as he pulls his coat tighter around himself. A hacking cough sneaks up on him, and leaves him shuddering against the brick wall behind him.

One month. One month since bloody Mycroft had picked him up off the street and confined him to Mycroft’s house, demanding Sherlock stop this childish nonsense and get clean. Two weeks since Sherlock incapacitated the body guard outside his room and escaped into London’s underbelly. Thirteen days since his first hit after leaving; three since his last.

Sherlock ran out of money two days ago. Withdrawal has snuck into his bones. The cold he’s been warding off since November has come back full force and now, shivers dance over his skin constantly. Sherlock sniffs and closes his eyes. His head is pounding, his vision blurry when it’s not spotty. He’s sweaty and hot, but freezing cold. God, what he’d do for some heroin, now. He’d settle for morphine, even, anything to turn off his mind.

Everything hurts. Sherlock struggles to keep awake, to keep breathing past the ache in his lungs, but he slips into unconsciousness as snow starts to dust his shoulders.

* * *

 

Fingers on his neck. Sherlock starts half-awake, blinking and flinching away.

“Easy, lad.” The blurry figure above him retreats, hands up. “Bloody hell, I wasn’t sure if you were still alive.”

Sherlock’s mind is whirling, lost. He can hear blood rushing through his ears, everything is distorted, too loud or too soft.

“...hospital,” the man says.

“No!” Sherlock fumbles, trying to stand up and run. His hands don’t support him; he falls back onto the pavement, scrambling, cold and icy concrete scraping his palms. “No hospital,” he mutters. Hospitals have…Mycroft, can’t go to hospital. Not safe.

“Okay, okay,” the man agrees. “No hospital.”

Sherlock’s heart begins to relax. He sighs, and it turns into a cough that shakes his body.

“Oh _hell_ ,” he groans.

“Right, that’s it,” the man says, and bends over. Hands tuck themselves under Sherlock’s arms, and next thing he knows his visions swimming as he’s dragged up onto his feet. The man slings one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulders and grips him by the waist.

“I’m not gonna let some kid die on the streets,” the man grumbles as he pulls Sherlock along.

“Y’can’t,” Sherlock slurs. “Mycroft…”

“I don’t care about your ‘croft’ right now, mate. Now shut up and concentrate on walking.”

* * *

 

The kid can barely keep his eyes open as Greg spills him into the back seat of Greg’s car. The five minute walk to the parking garage where Greg parked has taken its toll. The lad curls himself up in a ball as Greg closes the back door and slides into the driver’s seat. He turns the heat all the way up, then checks his review mirror as he pulls out of his parking space. The stranger is fast asleep, limp black curls draped over his forehead.

The drive home is short. Greg navigates through the city more thanks to muscle memory than paying attention; fortunately, London’s a bit quieter this time of night.

Greg’s flat is in a peaceful little building, set away from any major roads. He parks in his space, then opens the back door and lays a hand on his ward’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You’ve got to get up, just for a couple minutes.”

The man blinks his eyes open and stares up at Greg, gaze glassy.

“C’mon,” Greg encourages, and takes ahold of the man’s hand. With a soft tug he gets the stranger propped up against him; a bit more maneuvering and Greg manages to lock the car behind them and half-carry the man to his flat. The stairs are tricky, but they only stumble once. Greg sighs in relief when he opens his front door and is able to prop the lad up against the wall of the foyer.

He closes the door behind them, then re-shoulders the man. “Just a bit further,” he encourages. The man stirs weakly and picks up his feet a little more as they shuffle down the hall to Greg’s room. Greg lowers him down onto the bed, then kneels down to undo the man’s shoelaces and slip his shoes off. Even as beat up as they are with mud and snow, Greg can tell they’re good quality leather.

He stands and sets about peeling off the man’s coat; thick wool, but still not enough to stop the shivers that are making his teeth rattle. Greg hangs the massive thing, then digs through the bottom drawer of his wardrobe for extra blankets. He cocoons them around the man until only his face sticks out.

Heaving a sigh, Greg sits on the edge of his bed. The man’s forehead is warm with fever, and his hair is greasy from being unwashed; something in Greg’s chest twists with sympathy. He brushes a thumb over the man’s brow, calming.

The man’s eyes flutter open, momentarily clear. “Who..?” he croaks.

“I’m Greg,” Greg answers evenly. “And you?”

The man’s eyes slip closed again. “Sherlock,” he murmurs.

Greg blinks at the strange name, but shakes off his surprise. “Right. I’m going to get you some water, Sherlock, and then you can sleep. Okay?”

“Hmm.”

Greg pats Sherlock on the shoulder and leaves for the kitchen.

* * *

 

Greg drags a chair into his room and keeps watch that night. Sherlock sleeps fitfully, sometimes starting awake with movements full of terror; when this happens, Greg sits beside him on the bed and pets Sherlock’s hair, murmuring comforts until Sherlock drops off once more. Greg’s eyes grow scratchy and heavy as his alarm clock ticks out the minutes; he finds himself wearily thankful for the three days of holiday he’d been forced to request that afternoon.

Questions tug at Greg’s thoughts as he notes each of Sherlock’s breaths, worries over the slight rattle he can hear with each rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest.   _What happens if he gets worse? Can I take him to hospital? Where’s he from? Why was he on the streets?_

_Why do I care?_

Greg helps people. Or he tries, anyway, tries to give families answers and alleviate grief in any way he can. None of that quite explains why he stopped long enough to search Sherlock for a pulse, though, and falls even shorter from giving reason to why Sherlock is now in Greg’s bed and making Greg’s chest tight with concern.

_Why do I care?_

Sherlock has drifted back to sleep. Greg brushes his knuckles across Sherlock’s forehead then settles into his chair once again. The clock says 3:32. With an exhausted exhale, Greg pushes his thoughts aside for the moment and steels himself for the last stretch of night before dawn.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
